Pretend
by thegirlwhowondered
Summary: Clara comes down with the eight billion flu, and all the Doctor wants to do is make her feel better. VeryImplied!Whouffle


**A/N: Thanks to Whoufflepuff on Tumblr for the prompt 3 "_Clara getting sick, the Doctor taking care of her"_**

**I know it's short. I really didn't want to overdo it. Anywho, enjoy :D**

In retrospect, perhaps visiting the site of one of the biggest scientific oopsies in human history was _not_ the best idea.

The year was eight billion and three; and the planet, Yuma. Located in the medical district of the Stiros star system. By this point, the human race had spread far and wide across the galaxies. The Stiros star system wasn't a real star system, it was just a group of six or so planets that housed the greatest human scientific minds of its time. Each planet had a separate purpose, and planet Yuma was designated for research into medical science.

Well, ok, so it wasn't really the Doctor's fault they landed there; just as a failed attempt to rid the human race of all flus was running rampant, infecting every human who set foot on the planet! After all, he'd been heading for its neighbour Kumi, home of the cooler sciences like bubbles and fireworks and the things they show sixth graders to get them interested in the topic. And yet, as soon as he spotted the first sign of the eight billion flu, and noted how his sweet, fragile Clara had doubled over from an intense coughing fit, he felt a pang of guilt shoot through his hearts.

Of course, he got Clara out of there as soon as he possibly could. Her legs had given out halfway during the trek back to the TARDIS, so the Doctor had to carry her the rest of the way.

"It'll be ok, Clara," he whispered in her ear as they reached the TARDIS. The doors opened as they approached (at least the TARDIS was making an effort to be nicer these days) and he carried her inside without any hesitation.

"It's r-really c-c-cold," Clara whispered through chattering teeth.

The Doctor stood Clara upright and held onto her while he upped the TARDIS temperature at the controls and, just for good measure, shrugged his jacket off and wrapped it around her.

"It'll wear off in a day or two," the Doctor whispered, brushing Clara's beautiful brown hair out of her eyes. "The most you can do is ride it out. It won't last long, but it's pretty nasty."

Clara peered at the Doctor from under heavy lids. "You seem fine."

He shrugged. "My people evolved past getting the flu long ago."

"Lucky y-." Clara didn't get to finish her sentence because she cut herself off with another coughing fit.

"Ok. Off to bed with you." The Doctor hooked his arm underneath Clara's legs and once again scooped her up. Taking care not to jostle his shivering companion, he took her up to that bedroom he'd spent so long designing. It was one of the many things he'd preoccupied himself with doing while he was searching for her.

As he carried her along the bright white corridors, the Doctor felt a small surge of pride. Undoubtedly, Clara wanted to curl up in her own bed back at home. But she couldn't. Bringing this particular strain of flu to Clara's time could have disastrous consequences; and she knew that.

After tucking Clara in bed, the Doctor spent the next hour pacing back and forth, his hands fiddling absently, as she drifted in and out of sleep, occasionally calling out for him. He was by her side in seconds, of course, each and every time.

The Doctor hated seeing his Clara suffer. He wanted to make her feel better, more than anything. And while he did what he could for what felt like forever – fluffed her pillows, fetched extra blankets, held her hair back while she puked – it just didn't seem like enough. Not for his impossible, wonderful Clara Oswald.

"Think, Doctor," he murmured to himself. "Think. What do humans do to get…un-sick?"

Then it hit him. He couldn't make the flu go away, but he could offer Clara some degree of comfort.

"I'll be back before you know it," the Doctor whispered, darting out of the room and towards the kitchen. And he was back, just as he promised, after a good, solid hour of cooking.

So sure, he could have made the soup by using that cookware that had been gifted to him after he saved Fates Four (only the finest restaurant planet in the universe) for, oh, the twelfth time. But somehow, it just seemed more meaningful to cook it the human way. On the tray with the soup, the Doctor also had some cold water, a bowl of Poran's Finest Non-Melting Tantaberry and Potato Ice Cream (Clara's favourite) and a little vase of lilies, for good measure.

"Clara?" the Doctor whispered, setting the tray down on her nightstand and taking a seat on the edge of her bed. Clara stirred uncomfortably in her sleep, and began mumbling something.

"Hey." The Doctor reached forward, gently brushing her hair back. "It's only me. The Doctor. You really should eat, you haven't in over a day, come to think of it."

Clara's eyes opened a little, as she reached out her hand. "D…Doctor?"

"I'm here, I'm right here Clara. See?" He took her hands, squeezing them both gently. "Open your eyes and look at me."

Somehow, Clara got her eyes to open properly. She blinked the sudden light away, her gaze eventually falling upon the Doctor. A soft smile graced her features; even shaking and sweating and sick, she was still beautiful. "Hi."

"Hello there." The Doctor couldn't help but smile too. "Are you hungry?"

Clara nodded weakly. "But I don't think I have the energy to-"

The Doctor placed a finger over her lips. "Then allow me." Before Clara could protest, he had her propped up against the headboard, with pillows to keep her secure. "Perfect. Now." He grabbed the bowl of soup and held the spoon up, but Clara pushed it away.

"I'm ill, I'll admit to that. But I'm not a child. I don't need you to feed me."

"Alright." The Doctor handed her the spoon, knowing full well that her hand wouldn't be still enough to hold it. When he was proved right, he let out a quiet sigh. "Clara, please let me help you."

Clara surrendered with a slight nod. 'Alright, seems like I have no choice anyway." Hesitantly, she opened her mouth, allowing the Doctor to slip the spoon in.

Her tired eyes widened a little. "That's…really good. Who made it?"

"I did!" The Doctor beamed proudly, scooping up another spoonful for Clara.

"Wait. You can cook?" Clara tilted her head and opened her mouth, swallowing the next spoonful of soup.

The Doctor nodded. "Of course I can cook! I'm over a thousand years old, you'd think I would have had some lessons along the line there."

"Good point," Clara conceded; and with the Doctor's help, she finished off another couple of spoonfuls before turning the soup away. "I…don't…think I can eat any more," she groaned, arms wrapping tightly around her stomach.

"Shh, hey." The Doctor placed the bowl back on the tray and pulled Clara into a tight hug. She began to cough and, totally helpless, the Doctor just patted her softly on the back. Eventually, Clara's eyes began to slip shut, as she resumed her uneasy sleep.

The Doctor made no move to tuck her back in though. She seemed perfectly settled with her head leaning on his chest; and lulled into a state of peacefulness by his dual heartbeat. In a voice so soft it could barely be a whisper, the Doctor began to murmur in his own language – one he had not spoken so long – in Clara's ear. He didn't really _say_ very much. He just told her how beautiful she was, how clever and funny and incredible. His impossible girl. He told her all the things he didn't have the courage to admit out loud, even to himself. Somehow, saying it this way seemed a lot less real.

It was hours before Clara began to stir again. When she opened her eyes, the very first thing she was aware of was a pair of familiar, comfortable arms wrapped tightly around her. The second was a soft voice in her ear, "Did you sleep well?"

Clara shifted so she could look the Doctor in the eye. "Were you here the entire time?"

The Doctor nodded. "Yes, yes I was. I promised I'd look after you, and I did." He placed his hand on her forehead. "Your temperature's gone down. Are you feeling better?"

Clara nodded, looking around the room. She saw the forgotten tray, and the lilies, and the piles of blankets that hadn't been there before they stepped out onto Yuma. With the Doctor holding her close and protectively, somehow, despite the still faint headache she had, Clara felt better than ever. "But you know what, how about we pretend that I don't? Because this is really nice."

The Doctor smiled. "We can pretend for as long as you like."


End file.
